


I Hope You Don't Mind

by di0brando



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Fix-It, Getting Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-IT Chapter Two (2019), Soft Richie Tozier, oh yknow like a romcom airport scene, subtle confessions, the losers love their bratty gay friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-25 02:42:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20716769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/di0brando/pseuds/di0brando
Summary: The airport is forty minutes away. Richie's flight departs in an hour. Eddie takes a look at the risks and comes to two conclusions; Richie shouldn't be lonely again, and New York is severely overrated.





	I Hope You Don't Mind

Eddie has been home for all but four hours, but it feels like he’s been here for the past decade—it feels like he never even went back to Derry, reunited with his friends, murdered a clown, and spent three weeks in a hospital. He keeps checking the group chat that he’s formed with the Losers to convince himself that it was all real, and that he isn’t just remembering fake shit because he took one too many pills on accident.

In no uncertain terms does he want to forget the fact that he spent a week tentatively traveling with Richie back to New York. Richie drove him down from Derry and didn’t complain once; the trip only took as long as it did because Eddie is still on the mend, and he can’t handle too much stress. Eddie is also reluctant to admit to himself that he wanted to prolong the traveling so that he’d have more time to spend with Richie.

He and Richie have spent twenty-seven years without each other, so Eddie kept making up complaints about the pain in his face and abdomen just so they’d have an excuse to pull over for mediocre motels and indulgently unhealthy diners. Richie never made Eddie feel rushed—they took pictures together in front of funny billboards and strange landmarks. A few of the photos ended up in the group chat, to which Beverly and Mike would respond with heart emojis. Eddie knew that they were expressing love for the two of them, but he always felt a twinge of nervousness at the implication. Well, the implication that the camera picked up something more than casual, platonic fondness in Eddie’s smirks.

It’s underwhelming, in comparison, to be back at the stuffy and clinical house he shares with his wife. His wife, who continues to tut and ramble and click her tongue in admonishment.

Oh, Eddie. Oh, Eddie. Oh, Eddie.

Why didn’t you call me, Eddie? You had me so worried, Eddie. You didn’t pick up your phone, Eddie.

Fucking one-hundred missed calls on your phone when you got out of the hospital, _Eddie_.

He knows he isn’t winning any husband of the year trophies, but his tongue sours the longer he twists his wedding ring around on his finger, lost in thought. He sits on the plain sofa in his plain living room while Myra bustles around in their plain kitchen, insisting that he get some proper food for a proper recovery.

Eddie’s eyes continue to flicker to his phone—he’ll unlock it sporadically, as if he’s missed a text notification from Richie or the group chat. The last message in the roster was from Ben, and it was sent over an hour ago.

By now, Richie is probably at the airport, since there’s no way he hasn’t returned their rental car yet. He’s more than likely just really busy getting ready for travel, and maybe he’s trying to get things sorted with his manager, juggling potential tour dates and apologies. That’s probably why he hasn’t texted Eddie.

Eddie frowns, the creases at the corners of his mouth deepening. He can feel a sharp, burning pain tug at the still-healing scar on his cheek. He can’t just text Richie and ask how he’s doing. They just saw each other earlier this morning. They’re both adults, and they both went decades without inane text messages. Eddie should be able to go more than twenty-four hours without hearing from Trashmouth Tozier.

Well, key word being ‘should.’

Eddie nibbles at his lower lip. Brown eyes flicker to his phone again. He watches the clock roll up by one minute as he fiddles with the ring on his finger.

Absently, Eddie wonders what Richie’s LA condo might look like. Is it empty, despite being cluttered with junk and wrinkly laundry? Is it lonely, despite his Instagram bearing hundreds of thousands of followers? Eddie doesn’t want to be presumptuous, but his gut tells him that Richie’s place can’t be much better than his own.

Despite all the furniture, right now it sure feels empty. Despite the wife, it just feels mundane. And it isn’t like Eddie is in denial; in fact, he’s painfully aware that the most fun he’d had in months was at the reunion dinner. When he was laughing with his friends. When Richie was poking fun at his job, and his house, and his fucking wife, and Eddie had to act like Trashmouth wasn’t hitting the nail on the head.

There was no earnest joy waiting for Eddie once he left Derry—he was permitted to leave, but he wasn’t permitted to feel _fulfilled_. It was another unfair exchange courtesy of _It;_ I’ll let you go, but you’re not going to be happy out there. Now that the clown is gone for good and Eddie is aware of the glaring absences around him, he can’t go back to settling for the bare minimum. He knows that there’s more for the Losers now than a group chat.

Eddie is aware that Beverly will be moving in with Ben. He knows that Mike will be leaving Derry, and that Bill will _conveniently_ have room for him when Mike _conveniently_ visits Florida. He knows that they’ll see each other at an eventual wedding—_weddings_, maybe—and that they’ll get together for the holidays. They’ll get special tickets to Richie’s shows, exclusive copies of Bill’s books, and plenty of cheesy pictures of Bev and Ben’s inevitable new dog. They’ll call each other when things get rough, and they’ll tag each other in dumb shit on Instagram. Hell, maybe they’ll get matching tattoos.

And Eddie is supposed to just...stay here?

Eddie is twisting his wedding ring so much that his skin is starting to feel a little raw. He hears Myra rummaging around in the fridge and he can practically feel his blood pressure spike. But he no longer fears consequence. He’s analyzed the risks, and he’s found that his not-wife pales in comparison to the clown.

_You’re braver than you think._

Eddie grabs for his phone so quickly that he almost drops it. He opens a chat window with Beverly.

‘Has Richie texted you?’ He hits send and just as quickly realizes that he’ll have a heart attack if she doesn’t have her phone on her at the moment. His palms start to feel sweaty—luckily, three dots appear on the screen.

‘Yeah, about fifteen minutes ago. He’s at the airport, but I don’t think his flight is for another hour.’

Eddie looks at the time with wide eyes; he’s about forty minutes away from the airport. It suddenly feels as if he’s underwater, and he can only hear roaring in his ears. He swallows past a dry throat and looks at Beverly’s next message.

‘Why?’

‘I fucking hate New York,’ Eddie texts back in lieu of an explanation. He ignores her next message in favor of pinging an Uber. When that’s done, Eddie quickly gets to his feet, shoves his phone in his pocket, and makes a beeline for the bedroom. He briefly slides across the hardwood floor on his knees before dragging a large suitcase out from underneath the bed. Not their bed. He’s not sleeping here anymore.

In his haste, he doesn’t even notice that he’s packing less shit than when he left for Derry. He’s not overthinking this anymore—he did enough thinking when he was in the hospital. He shoves his favorite clothes in the case, along with some books that Myra can’t lay claim to.

When he clears out the medicine cabinet, his gut just seems to tell him which pill bottles he doesn’t really need (and never really needed). The placebo bullshit doesn’t make the cut; Eddie takes his leftover anxiolytics and reminds himself that he can get the prescriptions refilled in California.

His phone buzzes in his pocket when his ride arrives, and Eddie is rushing to the front door and pulling his sneakers on as soon as Myra exits the kitchen. She blinks owlishly at him from behind wide-frame glasses that are far less endearing than Richie’s.

“Eddie?” She maybe has the right to look offended by the suitcase. Eddie sucks his teeth and nods firmly, mostly steeling himself.

This suitcase kills monsters if you believe it does.

“Myra, I’m sorry, but not as much as I am relieved to be doing this,” Eddie tells her, deliberately taking off the golden band and setting it on top of the shoe rack. “Uh, the house is yours,” he not-smiles before yanking open the front door. Lawyers can handle it all later.

“Eddie?!”

“And get some fucking therapy, maybe!” Eddie calls over his shoulder before carrying his suitcase to the curb. He ignores her yelling just as much as he ignores his driver when he tosses his luggage into the trunk of a Toyota.

Eddie pulls his phone back out, opens Richie’s text window, and sends an audio message.

“You fucking asshole, if you don’t book a different flight, you’re paying for my goddamn airfare.”

Even if Eddie doesn’t make it in time, he’s going to catch the next flight to Los Angeles. Even if Eddie is delusional and Richie doesn’t want to share whatever _this_ is, Eddie will make it an excuse to relax as best he can and sort out his next steps. But he can’t be fucking imagining things.

When he’s buckled in the back seat, Eddie opens the group chat and scrolls up to see Richie’s shared photos from their makeshift road trip. One is of them sitting on a bench—their shoulders are touching, and while Eddie is looking at the camera with a self-conscious grin, Richie is beaming at _him_.

Eddie could convince himself that it’s just a smile, but it would feel cheap. It wouldn’t give Richie enough credit. That prick would want Eddie to keep speculating without ever actually drawing attention to himself.

It’s not that it’s even the biggest leap to take; just a week after Eddie regained consciousness, Richie spammed the group chat with nonchalance that only read as anxiety.

‘I’m gay, btw.’

‘Idk if I told you guys. Lot going on with the clown and the, uh, weather and everything.’

‘Don’t act fucking surprised, I think Stan knew. I liked the clubhouse Lost Boys poster too much.’

‘Also Pennywise kept heckling me about it. Like, holy shit it’s been thirty years, come up with some new material.’

‘Not that it didn’t suck because Derry is the fucking worst, but like, Bill was wearing blue pants with brown socks yesterday and nobody said anything about it, so you guys are really progressive.’

Richie was then met with an onslaught of different reactions; some funny, some admonishing, some reassuring. But they all came back around to _love_. And when Eddie looked up from where he was resting his cot to see Richie wiping at his eyes and smiling down at his phone, he knew they were all going to be okay.

Eddie’s train of thought is interrupted when he gets a new text from Richie.

‘Big fucking baby, I know you miss me already, but I’m sure the milk back home is just fucking awful by now. Can’t keep taking a rain check on that one.’ Eddie’s brow creases into a glare, but his mouth twitches up in a slanted grin.

‘Changed my mind about ‘going home.’ Was an awful idea, so I’m going to LA. And before you ask, I’m not helping you clean out your fucking fridge.’

‘You’re just...going to LA?’

‘Yeah, why? There not enough room there for me alongside your big fucking forehead?’

‘JESUS. Literally homophobic.’

Eddie rolls his eyes and doesn’t dignify that with a response. The drive to the airport doesn’t take but so long, but Eddie’s nerves have him bouncing his leg like a panicked toddler—he knows it gets on his driver’s nerves, so he tips him well after he’s retrieved his suitcase.

Of course a New York City airport is a goddamn circus, and Eddie has had more than enough of circuses in his lifetime, but he’s willing to brave the trenches of influenza and wailing children for a lanky comedian with constant five-o-clock shadow. He’s only ever had high standards.

Eddie ignores the low battery warning on his phone and uses its final breaths to call Richie. It only takes two rings for him to answer, and Eddie wastes no time.

“Where are you, dickhead? There are like fifty other white men with glasses here.” There’s a beat before Richie responds to him with an uncertain tone in his voice.

“’_Here_?’” Richie asks, “Dude, I thought you were joking—you weren’t _joking_?”

“No, why would I be joking? I’m at six percent fucking battery, I told Myra to fuck off, and now I’m_ here in this disgusting airport_ so if you could tell me where you are, that would be great.”

When Richie speaks again, Eddie can vaguely hear him from beyond the phone, mixed in with the din of the crowd. Eddie turns his head to the left, and manages to catch a glimpse of Richie, not too far away and rising from his plastic chair.

“You really are coming with me, Eds?” Eddie hears the question and watches the words move on Richie’s mouth as the two make eye contact across the waiting area. His phone goes dead, and Eddie lets his arm drop. Richie acts like his shoes are glued to the floor, so Eddie makes his way over to him and pointedly heaves his suitcase down beside Richie’s.

“…I saw you this morning, y’know. I think Facetime is also a thing,” Richie says, looking down at Eddie and fighting back a hesitant grin. The airport lighting is too bright—Richie can’t hide the red in his cheeks. Eddie narrows his eyes and raises his chin.

“Do you want me to leave, then?” Eddie deadpans, knowing he has Richie cornered. Richie’s throat shifts and he chuckles. His eyes dart around, but he never takes them off of Eddie.

“I didn’t wanna drop you off in the first place,” Richie admits, quieter than usual. Eddie notices one of Richie’s hands fidgeting restlessly at his side; he reaches out and gently takes it in his own. Richie’s eyes shut tightly, albeit briefly, as he visibly tries to convince himself that Eddie’s hand is real. When he opens them again, they’re shiny.

“Eds, you mean it?”

It’s a test that Eddie knows he isn’t going to fail, because he knows that Richie isn’t just referring to the move to LA. He’s talking about _this_. He’s referring to how fucking terrified Richie is—though he’s no longer scared of being _out_, he does fear the idea of getting his hopes too high and clinging to Eddie too tightly. Eddie tightens his grip around Richie’s fingers because Richie is scared of a last minute ‘no homo.’

“Yeah, I do,” Eddie says because he can’t think of a witty punchline. He also doesn’t want to poke fun at Richie’s watery eyes, no matter how tempting it is. Richie fucking beams, opens his phone’s camera, and yanks Eddie into frame.

“Richard, I’m not taking fucking airport selfies with you,” Eddie gripes, but he doesn’t pull away when Richie rests his chin on top of his head. Richie holds up their hands so that their linked fingers show up in the shot.

In this one, Richie grins at the camera and Eddie is glancing at their hands. Eddie sighs because Richie is swiping it up into the group chat without preamble.

‘Guys, I think this guy at the airport wants to date me, idk he’s kind of cute.’

Everyone is typing...

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my gosh, ANOTHER 2k oneshot about two dumb gays looking at their feelings??? What can I say, I just know My Brand.   
Thank you all so much for the wonderful comments on my other Reddie fic! This fandom has been so sweet, and I've been motivated to make content for these two. 
> 
> Be sure to leave kudos or let me know if you enjoyed the fic! I appreciate the love <3
> 
> Fic title comes from Your Song by Elton John because it's perfect for them and I don't make the rules. Do they dance to Elton at their wedding?? YES because I'm wise and I've done nothing but listen to the Rocketman soundtrack this year lmao


End file.
